


Pressing Matters

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Everyone Wants Greg, Humor, Laundry, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Oblivious!Greg, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>According to fengirl88's most excellent <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/133405">Consequences</a> (part 7), Lestrade does his own ironing. Clearly, then, there is a need for ironing!porn featuring the D.I.<br/>Betaed by fengirl88 and drachenmina.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressing Matters

**Author's Note:**

> _Laundry-centric and Lestrade-centric smut, with no redeeming social or political value._

Sherlock bounded up two flights of stairs to Lestrade's unassuming flat and didn't bother knocking. He had lost track of time while examining a particularly interesting corpse at Bart's--a poison victim, gone a truly stunning shade of green. He knew John and Mycroft would already be waiting at Lestrade's. They were all meeting this evening to compare notes on investigations of an Iranian spy network and then traveling in Mycroft's pretentious black car to a briefing with the Prime Minister. Sherlock was prepared to field grumbles of annoyance about his lateness from both John and Mycroft, but no grumbles were forthcoming.

Instead, Sherlock found a disturbing scene, and his mind immediately engaged to observe and analyze the details.  
  
 _Lestrade:_  
The man stood in the middle of his sitting-room ironing a shirt. Vintage early 1960s ironing board. Probably inherited from his mother. Recent model steam iron, frequently used, but also well maintained. Lestrade wore a white t-shirt, perhaps a half-size too small, a little snug around his arms. Arms that were flexed and gracefully in motion as he went about his work. One hand pressed down on the handle of the iron, running it smoothly across the back of the blue shirt splayed out helplessly on the ironing board. The other hand pulled the shirt taut and held the collar firmly in place against its will. Dark gray trousers, button undone and zipper only two-thirds closed. Clearly waiting for the ironed shirt to be put on and tucked in. Hair not really disheveled, but not yet neatly combed. Face pink and obviously warm as a result of the heat radiating from the iron. Eyes focused on his work. Ignoring John and Mycroft, who were sitting opposite him, each in a comfy, well-worn armchair, since the sofa was piled high with clean laundry.

 _John:_  
Sweat gathering around the collar of a salmon-pink shirt underneath his gray cashmere jumper (gift from Clara). Clearly he'd opted to forgo the standard lumpy oatmeal jumper given the more formal circumstances of today's meeting with the PM. Knees pressed firmly together. Arms folded across his chest, hugging himself. Obviously trying to maintain some modicum of his usual self-control. But not very successfully. Blushing. Pupils dilated. Mouth open, saliva gathering near the left corner. Breathing shallow and uneven. Interesting twist, thought Sherlock. Usually John wanted his own cock in someone else's mouth, but obviously not today . . .

 _Bloody Mycroft:_  
Standard light brown three-piece suit. Legs crossed, beige trenchcoat draped across his lap. Eyes also dilated. Breathing also uneven. Lips pursed, in thinking and plotting mode. One hand moving slowly up and down the long, hard handle of his umbrella. The other hand caressing the curve of the handle in the most unsubtle way possible.

  
 _No time for idle chatter,_ thought Sherlock. _I need to act quickly._

"I need to see John and Mycroft outside out on the landing immediately," barked Sherlock.

"Fine" said Lestrade, not looking up from his ironing. "I'll be ready in five minutes. We already talked about the Iranian stuff without you. We're all on the same page, so we can fill you in on the ride to Downing Street."

"Why can't you talk to us here, Sherlock? I don't want to go out on the landing," whinged John, unwilling to remove his gaze from Lestrade's half-undone trousers.

"No time for questions. Just get up, both of you, and get out here now," ordered Sherlock. John and Mycroft both rose awkwardly, attempting to hide their erections. Mycroft, with his trenchcoat, was almost successful. John tried to tug his sweater lower, which only drew attention to the problem. Lestrade seemed blind to the situation. _As usual_ , thought Sherlock, who rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

In the hallway, a brief, but intense battle ensued over who was going to go back into Lestrade's flat to gently romance him (John), seduce him (Mycroft), or molest him (Sherlock). John dropped out of the fight first, too thoroughly undone by Lestrade and his steam iron to stand up to the Holmes brothers.

"Why'd he have to do that?" moaned John. "Why'd he have to iron? I didn't even know I _had_ an ironing kink, 'til now." He slid to the floor and buried his head against his knees.

Mycroft and Sherlock first tried Scissors, Paper, Stone to make the decision. But the outcome was always a tie. So they tossed a coin. Sherlock won. Mycroft seethed, but managed to bow out with a tight-lipped smile, then looked down at John in disgust.

"Oh, do get up, John. It isn't the end of the world. I'll take you back to Baker Street for a shower, a fresh jumper, and fellatio. But only if you stop that sniveling. Then we will meet Sherlock and Lestrade at Downing Street. Right, Sherlock? In thirty-five minutes, precisely--you will _not_ be late!"

Sherlock was already walking back into Lestrade's flat, but offered a little wave of dismissal and a triumphant grin to Mycroft as he shut the door.

Sherlock re-entered the flat to see Lestrade holding up his shirt to the light to check for wrinkles. He laid the shirt back down on the board for one last press of the collar and pushed the steam button, sending a light mist floating up toward his still ruddy--and now pleasingly moist--face.

Sherlock looked down at his shoes for a moment to regain his composure. He fe lt his cock straining to the limit in his new, tight Armani trousers. Then he walked quickly towards Lestrade's bedroom.

"Hey, what are you doing? Get out of my room, Sherlock!"

"Just looking for something. Back in a minute."

"Looking for what? Get out of there, you git," said Lestrade with undisguised irritation. Lestrade pulled on his fresh shirt and began buttoning it as Sherlock strolled back into the sitting-room. "I'm just about ready, Sherlock. Where did Mycroft and John go? Are we meeting them at the car?"

Silently, Sherlock stepped close behind Lestrade. Pressing the front of his trousers (and their contents, obviously) to the back of Lestrade's. Pressing the front of his pearl-buttoned silk aubergine shirt against Lestrade's still pleasingly warm Marks & Spencer blue one. Pressing his long, pale fingers onto Lestrade's waist, sliding them underneath the DI's shirt and t-shirt, then up to his chest. Tickling Lestrade's ribs, the dimple of his sternum, and lightly pinching his sensitive nipples. Pressing his own erection even more firmly against Lestrade's arse. Pressing his lips, then teeth to the back of Lestrade's neck.

Lestrade drew his breath in quickly and stiffened for a moment. "Sherlock, what are you doing? I mean, I know what you're doing, but I thought we'd stopped doing this. You said it was too distracting . . . oh, _fuck_ . Do that again."

Still wrapped snugly around Lestrade's back, Sherlock had reached around and unbuttoned Lestrade's shirt and was pulling it off, biting and scraping his teeth at the cotton of Lestrade's t-shirt, and finally tearing a large hole in it--then licking greedily at the DI's shoulders and arms as he ripped the fabric.

"Don't throw it on the floor . . . oh, damn you to hell."

Sherlock not only threw Lestrade's lovingly pressed shirt onto the floor, he stepped on it. In Sherlock's opinion, Lestrade needed to know who was in charge right now, and if a shirt had to be sacrificed, well, so be it. Obviously, they were not going to make it to Downing Street today, anyway, so what did it matter?

Sherlock pulled off the shredded remains of Lestrade's t-shirt and tossed it across the room, where it landed in a potted geranium. Then he turned back to biting and licking Lestrade's spine and shoulder blades, while inching his hands down the front of the man's torso, finally coming to rest on the still undone waistband of his trousers.

With his cheek pressed firmly against Lestrade's back, Sherlock could enjoy the vibrations of deep, echoing moans as he slowly unzipped Lestrade's trousers and his hands found their way into his boxers. The warm, delicate flesh and thick, soft hair felt familiar against his cool fingers, something he now realized he had sorely missed.

Grazing his fingertips along the length of Lestrade's twitching cock, Sherlock felt more pleasing vibrations against his cheek.

"God. Yes. That." sighed Lestrade.

Sherlock now quickly pushed Lestrade's trousers and boxers down to his ankles, then slipped one hand between the man's thighs, urging him to a wider stance. With his other hand, Sherlock gripped Lestrade's heavy cock, spreading the slick, warm pre-come seeping from the tip.

Sherlock reveled in his own skills for a moment, congratulating himself on having longer arms and more dexterity than either Mycroft or John. Neither of them would be able to fuck Lestrade soundly from behind, while simultaneously jerking him off in spectacular fashion. _Well done, me,_ thought Sherlock, as he unzipped his own trousers and pulled out his cock.

The lubricant retrieved from the bedroom found its way onto Sherlock's fingers, and he slid two quickly into Lestrade, working him open efficiently. Sherlock now pushed forward, bending Lestrade over the ironing board, as Lestrade in turn pressed his hips back eagerly to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock began moving, teasing with shallow, gentle thrusts at first. Then pushing deep, and deeper still. Sherlock smiled with satisfaction when he heard a new, louder and more gutteral groan.

Sherlock moved fast and forcefully, trying to match the rhythm and urgency of his thrusting to the movement of his right hand as it pulled awkwardly at Lestrade's cock.

Lestrade closed his eyes and gripped the ironing board with one hand, murmuring an apology to his mum. With his other hand Lestrade pushed Sherlock's fingers away and grabbed his own penis.

_[Author's note: Sherlock is not as good at multi-tasking as he thinks he is.]_

Lestrade was swaying now, as if drunk from the heat of Sherlock's breath on his back, the pounding of his own hips against Sherlock's hips, the friction of Sherlock's cock inside him, and the sound of his own desperate breaths.

Sherlock came first in one crashing explosion. Lestrade followed close after, in rippling waves of pleasure and profanity. Sherlock felt for a moment as if he were weightless, floating on Lestrade's back in some empty, timeless space.

When the room came back into focus and his heart stopped pounding in his ears, Sherlock could no longer remember why he had insisted on breaking off his relationship with Lestrade when John moved in. What _had_ he been thinking? It was utterly illogical.

Sherlock pulled Lestrade to the sofa, wrestling their sweaty bodies down onto the pile of freshly laundered linens. Sherlock still in his shirt and wrinkled, sticky trousers. Lestrade naked, pink, and glistening.

"You bastard. Now I'l l have to wash this lot all over again. I fucking hate you sometimes."

"Yes. I know," said Sherlock, smiling. "I often despise you as well." After a moment, he asked, "So, you wash and iron every Monday evening?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock made a note in his mental calendar. There were a few minutes of silence as the two men lay close together on the sofa, arms and legs entwined, breathing and heart rates returning to normal.

"On Thursdays I sort my socks," said Lestrade wickedly.

Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining the drawer, the chaotic tumble of black and brown wool, Lestrade's quick, manly hands at work, sorting and rolling. Feet bare. Toes waiting to be licked and . . . Sherlock steepled his own hands below his chin, breathing deeply.

"You haven't mentioned the socks to John or Mycroft have you? You're such a damned flirt, I wouldn't put it past you."

"No, of course not," laughed Lestrade, clearly still not realizing the effect he had had on the other two men.

"Excellent, then. See you Thursday. We'll do condoms and curries."

 

 


End file.
